when a heart breaks, it don't break even
by writingmyownhistory-inactive
Summary: There's no such thing as a clean break when it comes to hearts. ;Brittany/Santana;


I decided to write a Brittana breakup oneshot. It's purposely open-ended, so the conclusion is yours to imagine/decide.

* * *

><p><strong>now i'm trying to make sense of what little remains, you've left me with no love, no love to my name.<strong>

* * *

><p>You've made a point of spending time around Brittany since freshman year. Like everyone else that first day on campus, she seemed a little lost.<p>

You weren't.

You strode right past her, staring at your schedule. It was hard for you to understand how any classroom could be even remotely difficult to find. The layout was simple enough.

Maybe she'd skipped out on new student orientation day. You didn't really care that she was lost, or even why, but you pitied her anyway.

By the end of the next day, she had started calling you her best friend.

For a while, things between you remained as simple as that.

You had third period Spanish with Brittany sophomore year and, out of what you'd like to think was the kindness of your heart but was probably just boredom, you tutored her endlessly.

Verb conjugations? Check.

Vocabulary words? Check again.

Speaking practice? No problem.

When you slipped from English to Spanish, reverting from the slang of America and running back to your native language as though it were an old friend, Brittany looked at you differently. The look in her eyes wasn't quite one of comprehension, but you definitely saw some renewed interest – it was like the energy that had been drained by irregular verbs and the confusion of switching tenses immediately returned to her upon hearing you speak in fluid rhythms.

She didn't know what most of the words she heard were meant to translate to in English (not for lack of trying from either of you) but the expression on her face whenever you tried to carry on a conversation with her told you she found them pretty anyway.

Brittany would listen with rapt attention, waiting a moment after you had stopped speaking so she could gather her own words, the ones she needed to ask what it all meant.

As you grew closer, your bond only solidifying after your simultaneous induction to the Cheerios, she wanted reasons for things that had already been written in understandable English.

At least, it was all logical to you – you didn't need to ask why because you knew about the intricacies of human nature, having been directly exposed to them. Brittany had somehow failed to ever relate to the people around her – you were her method of bridging the gap.

You protected Brittany from her own naivety by translating the world around her.

Perhaps you took the innocence for granted, at least on a subconscious level, because you hedged around the topics you hoped to avoid entirely for as long as you were able, using childlike terminology that Brittany would understand without learning something about you that would shatter both her illusion of the world and the way she perceived you.

Once, you forgot to be careful.

(Why couldn't she have misunderstood these words, this truth, as she had all the other times you had accidentally revealed things about yourself she was never supposed to know?)

* * *

><p>You're sitting on the couch with her when everything starts to fall apart.<p>

"San," Brittany says, her voice wavering with sleepiness. "You look so sad." She rubs a warm, miniscule circle over the back of your hand using the pad of her thumb.

You entwine your fingers in hers. "Nothing's wrong, Britt," you reassure her, raising your clasped hands to kiss her knuckles.

"Don't believe you," she murmurs against the shell of your ear, her head dropping onto your shoulder as she begins falling asleep. "Talk about it in the morning, 'kay?" Her words are so slurred and thick now that if you weren't well versed in sleep speech, you'd have no idea what she's trying to say.

You flash a quick smile and kiss her forehead, inhaling the scent of something vanilla that is so distinctly Brittany, it would be impossible for you to ever lose track of her in a crowded room. "Okay."

In some ways, you envy Brittany's life – she doesn't seem to feel pressured by the more 'adult' things everyone seems to be partaking in.

She isn't you – the girl who lost her virginity at thirteen and had dabbled in drugs and drinking just a year later – you gave up alcohol and brightly colored pills entirely, but sex is the one thing you've never ditched.

Brittany doesn't know. Under the deceptive veil of the celibacy club, anyone is a virgin. So the person you care about most has believed that, the first time she thumbed your clit and made you come, it really was _the first time _not just for her, but you, as well.

She wholeheartedly sees truth where there is only a lie.

You hate yourself for keeping secrets like this, trying to take advantage of Brittany's space-cadet tendencies just so you can paint a picture of the person you'd rather be.

As it turns out, you've colored perfection using pigments that will stain and all the wrong hues.

* * *

><p>"How could you do this?" She screams, holding up your phone – there's messages in your inbox that border on being completely vulgar, messages you know you can't explain away because even though they're just words on a screen, the evidence is there and far too real for either of you to want to face.<p>

They're from Puck. Sam. Even Finn.

Anyone but Brittany because you just can't admit to yourself that she is who you really want.

"Britt," you murmur desperately, feeling your knees weaken and bend too far as you take a step toward her on shaky legs.

Brittany instantly reacts, sending her arms flying out to push you back. The impact catches you by surprise and you stumble backwards, your body crashing against the wall. You're angry – with both Brittany and yourself – but more prominent than that rage is a wave of sadness that causes tears to pool in your eyes and your hands to clench into fists.

You can feel the bite of your fingernails digging into your palms. It hurts, but less so than what is in front of you.

"You told me you loved me." The words fall between the two of you, their implications expanding the chasm that has opened in your relationship.

"I wasn't lying."

But the truth is out, and just like that, she leaves, exiting your shared apartment in a storm of sadness and anger, betrayal drifting behind her, and this is how you come to realize things will never be the same.

It's over.

Brittany Pierce has come and gone – she was destined to leave because you were destined to fuck things up.

Your life has come to the point where making mistakes is the only thing you can manage to do.

Really, it was only a matter of time before your world crumbled in the wake of all your failures.

* * *

><p>She calls a week later and comes by to collect her things, an experience that is painful for both of you – dutifully, you edge around the minefields of memories that she brings and load everything into boxes.<p>

At the end of it all, you're left with nothing. All your material possessions are still in their places, but there are obvious, gaping holes where little pieces of Brittany used to be.

It's not about the items you lost – not the pictures or the shared clothes.

The love Brittany took when she left is the most devastating loss you've experienced in your life.

Her love was all you ever had to hold on to, and now it's disappeared, leaving you dangling over the edge of the cliff Brittany once pulled you off of.

* * *

><p>Time passes.<p>

You fall.

_It's over, Santana_.


End file.
